Rev.  Dr.  HOWARD  DU FFIELD'S 

SERMON  AT  THE  SIXTY-FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY 


AMERICAN  SEAMEN’S  FRIEND  SOCIETY. 


SHIPS: 


A DISCOURSE  BEFORE  THE 


Hmencan 

Seamen's  Fpiend  SoeiefeY. 

AT  ITS 

SIXTY~FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY, 

Sunday  evening,  JVIag  7,  1893, 

BY 

Rev.  HOWARD  DUFFIELD,  D.  D„ 

Df  THE 

FIRST  PRESBYTERIAN  CHURCH,  FIFTH  AVENUE  AND  ELEVENTH  STREET, 
NEW  YORK  CITY. 


AMERICAN  SEAMEN'S  FRIEND  SOCIETY, 

76  WALL  STREET,  NEW  YORK, 

1893. 


■S«r/n- 


SERMON. 


“ There  go  the  ships.” — Psalm  civ:  26. 

Well,  nothing  else  can  go  there,  and  they  can  go  nowhere  else. 
Sea-water  is  not  a good  roadway  for  craft  that  have  no  keel.  Turn- 
pike and  railway  make  poor  cruising  ground  for  boats.  The  tenants 
of  the  earth  must  leave  by  far  the  largest  part  of  their  present  resi- 
dence unvisited,  unless  they  are  willing  to  go  a-sailing;  a fact  not 
wholly  pleasurable.  Seafaring  is  not  altogether  inviting.  The  big- 
ness of  the  ocean  makes  man  feel  very  little  and  very  lonesome. 
Listen  to  the  log  of  an  old  voyager.  “ Forty  days  in  the  great  desert 
of  the  sea,  forty  nights  camped  under  cloud  canopies  with  the  salt 
dust  of  the  waves  drifting  over  us.  Sometimes  a Bedouin  sail  flashed 
for  an  hour  upon  the  distant  horizon,  and  then  faded,  and  we  were 
alone  again;  sometimes  the  West  at  sunset  looked  like  a city  with 
towers  and  we  bore  down  upon  its  glorified  walls  seeking  a haven; 
but  a cold  grey  morning  dispelled  the  illusion,  and  our  hearts  sank 
back  into  the  illimitable  sea,  breathing  a long  prayer  for  deliver- 
ance.” The  situation  is  somewhat  singular.  If  we  were  world- 
making, we  would  not  use  so  much  fluid.  The  planet  seems  more 
like  an  aquarium,  than  a stopping  place  for  land-loving  animals.  It  is 
a decidedly  wet  globe  that  man  has  been  given  the  care  of,  only  one- 
tenth  of  it  soil,  nine-tenths  of  it  brine.  Not  quite  so  many  leagues 
of  inhospitable  and  sterile  waste,  and  much  more  of  meadow  and 
garden;  fewer  schools  of  fish,  and  more  communities  of  men;  a little 
less  sea-weed  and  a little  more  corn  crop;  less  foam  and  more  loam 
would  seem  to  be  an  improved  formula  for  globe-making. 

“ The  sea  is  His.  He  made  it.”  And  whatever  He  makes  is  a ser- 
vant of  good.  The  mighty  wall  of  sea  which  He  has  builded  about 
the  dwelling  places  of  the  nations  is  the  condition  of  the  race’s  finest 
growth. 

The  sea  is  the  creator  of  national  character.  It  endows  each  of 
the  peoples  of  the  earth  with  personality.  It  equips  each  mem- 
ber of  the  household  of  nations  for  that  peculiar  function  which  it 
must  play  in  achieving  the  mission  of  the  race.  The  brightest  and 
the  bravest  nationalities  are  those  which  breathe  the  most  sea  salt. 


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The  lands  which  grow  the  hardiest  and  most  helpful  of  men  are  those 
which  lie  open-breasted  to  the  embrace  of  the  sea. 

“ Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a cycle  of  Cathay.” 

China  with  its  oceans  of  land  is  a fossil  nationality.  England  girt 
with  sea,  as  with  a tightened  girdle,  sweeps  unrestingly  along  the 
pathway  of  mastery.  China  perpetually  petrifies.  England  perennially 
fructifies. 

The  sea  is  the  creator  of  international  communication.  It  seems  to 
isolate.  It  really  furnishes  the  best  medium  of  national  communica- 
tion. It  not  only  bars,  it  beckons.  It  is  a barrier  to  hate,  but  it  is 
the  thoroughfare  of  peace.  The  merchant-man  can  cross  it  more 
easily  than  the  war-ship.  The  commerce  of  the  world  is  the  child 
of  the  sea  and  “the  sails  of  commerce  are  the  wings  of  truth.” 
Knowledge,  the  social  refinements,  the  arts  of  culture,  the  fruits  of 
power,  the  factors  of  expanding  manhood,  all  follow  in  its  wake.  The 
interchange  of  material  products  is  accompanied  with  a traffic  in 
ideas,  a barter  of  truths,  a marketing  of  character  forces  that  deter- 
mine the  advancement  of  the  race.  All  that  ministers  to  largest 
development  of  society,  of  government,  of  science,  and  of  religion 
travels  by  sea.  The  highway  of  man,  and  the  pathway  of  the  Lord,  is 
in  the  great  waters.  The  progress  of  the  planet  is  across  the  wave. 

“ There  go  the  ships.”  How  many  there  are!  Long  ago  there  was 
but  one  ship  in  the  world,  and  everything  in  the  world  that  was  worth 
saving  was  aboard  that  single  ship.  The  squadron  of  exhibition  that 
came  sweeping  up  the  Narrows  yesterday,  breasting  the  waves  like  a 
flock  of  sea-gulls,  was  the  last  division  in  a mighty  naval  parade  that 
has  been  cruising  round  the  globe  ever  since  the  launching  of  Noah’s 
Ark,  the  flag-ship  of  the  world’s  flotilla.  Arithmetic  is  helpless  to  num- 
ber the  vessels  that  have  been  floated  since  it  anchored  at  Ararat.  Amid 
the  foremost  files  of  the  great  maritime  procession  that  famous  life- 
boat of  bulrushes  went  drifting  down  the  Nile.  Through  the  mists 
of  the  morning  of  time  are  discerned  the  strange  ships  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean service,  that  made  their  haven  in  the  coasts  of  Zebulon.  Fol- 
lowing them  swarm  craft  innumerable,  the  great  merchant  ships  of 
Solomon,  with  their  cargoes  of  apes,  and  ivory,  and  peacocks; 
Iliram’s  cedar  rafts  for  the  Temple  building;  the  brazen-beaked  war- 
ships of  Greece  and  Rome,  with  their  terraces  of  oars;  the  rougli- 
hewen,  oaken-prowed  ships  of  the  Vikings,  that  vaunted  a royal  sway 
over  the  sea.  There  are  the  Argonauts,  who  sailed  Eastward  for  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  the  Phenicians,  who  sailed  Westward  for  Cornish 
tin.  There  is  the  proud  Armada  that  menaced  the  liberties  of  the 


5 


world,  and  the  humble  Mayflower  that  saved  the  freedom  of  mankind 
from  wreck.  There  are  galleys,  argosies,  caravels,  and  galleons; 
canoes,  yachts,  junks  and  dahabeeyahs.  There  are  the  old  time 
fighters  with  their  piled  up  clouds  of  canvas  and  their  Olympic 
thundeiings  of  artillery;  and  there  arc  the  modern  and  modest-looking 
monitors  that  are  floating  volcanoes,  sheathed  with  iron.  Yesterday 
the  three  pinnaces  of  the  explorer  came  groping  across  the  sea.  To- 
day an  unbroken  procession  of  splendid  vessels  goes  sweeping  forth 
upon  the  trackless  waste  of  waters,  with  the  careless  confidence  of  a 
boy  running  along  a country  lane. 

Not  only  in  secular  history,  but  in  the  story  of  religion  ships  are 
conspicuous  for  multitude.  The  background  of  gospel  incident  is 
beautiful  with  the  shimmer  of  Gennesaret  water.  An  overshadowing 
percentage  of  the  scanty  time  that  Jesus  spent  upon  the  earth  is 
associated  with  the  Galilean  Lake.  lie  wrought  miracles  upon  its 
shores.  He  used  one  of  its  fishing  smacks  as  a pulpit.  He  slept  in  its 
boats.  He  breathed  its  air.  He  drank  its  beauty.  He  commanded  its 
tempests  into  calm.  He  trod  its  chafing  waters  beneath  His  feet.  He 
cheered  the  heart  of  its  discouraged  fishermen.  He  recruited  His  dis- 
cipleship  from  their  sturdy  ranks.  After  His  resurrection,  upon  a 
never-to-be-forgotten  morning.  He  held  tryst  with  them  upon  these 
much  loved  shores,  as  He  shall  one  day  banquet  with  the  redeemed 
upon  the  shores  of  eternity,  when  all  shadows  have  flown  and  at  last 
day  has  come. 

When  an  apostolic  vacancy  was  to  be  filled,  one  who  was  no  stranger 
to  the  sea  was  chosen.  The  Mediterranean  was  to  Paul,  what  Gen- 
nesaret was  to  the  sons  of  Zebedee.  He  was  born  within  sound  of  its 
waves.  He  was  continually  crossing  its  waters.  He  touched  repeat- 
edly at  its  prominent  ports.  Its  winds  and  currents  were  familiar 
acquaintances.  The  tackle  of  its  shipping  he  could  handle  as  well  as  the 
weaver’s  shuttle.  Thrice  he  suffered  shipwreck.  A day  and  a night 
he  was  in  the  deep.  The  man  chosen  to  preach  to  the  Gentiles  was  a 
good  sailor.  In  fact,  a world-wide  gospel  meant  ships.  Without 
them  Christianity  would  be  a hermit  religion,  the  teaching  of  Jesus 
have  died  like  an  echo  in  a corner,  and  Old  and  New  Testaments 
alike  have  only  gathered  dust  upon  the  shelves  of  oblivion.  When  the 
Master  said  “ Go  into  all  the  world  and  gospel  creation,”  his  syllables 
meant  dockyards,  and  shipbuilders,  and  the  myriad  host  of  maritime 
folk.  Within  the  compass  of  that  sentence  lay  the  voyage  of  Augustine 
to  Britain  to  outdo  the  conquest  of  Caesar,  with  the  peaceful  victories 
of  the  cross.  It  implied  the  passage  of  the  Puritan  beyond  the  then 
undiscovered  seas,  to  achieve  in  fact  what  Columbus  performed  in 


6 


symbol,  to  rear  the  banners  of  Calvary  in  the  New  World,  and  to 
make  its  wilderness  to  sing  the  praises  of  Christ.  It  forecast  the  inva- 
sion of  India  by  Carey,  of  China  by  Morrison,  of  the  Dark  Continent 
by  Livingston?  Christians  of  the  earliest  times  emblemed  the  Church 
as  a ship  battling  its  triumphant  passage  over  hostile  billows.  But 
Christians  of  the  nineteenth  century  can  better  feel  the  thrilling  sig- 
nificance of  the  symbol  as  they  behold  the  marvels  of  maritime  skill 
whereby  the  world  is  girdled  with  gospel. 

“There  go  the  ships.”  How  wonderful  they  are  ! “ The  leviathan 
that  plays  therein,”  is  forced  to  defend  his  laurels  against  the  levia- 
than that  nowadays  is  disporting  himself  thereon.  The  legendary  sea 
serpent  is  an  insignificant  affair  in  comparison  with  the  matter-of-fact 
ocean  grey-hound.  Mind  is  mightier  than  ocean  ; more  measureless  ; 
more  fathomless.  The  voyaging  of  a modern  steamship  is  a victory  of 
mentality  before  which  one  may  well  bare  the  brow.  Most  marvellous 
was  it,  when  a keen  astronomer  urged  a brother  student  of  the  skies 
to  aim  his  lens  toward  a given  point  in  the  dark,  and  at  a certain 
hour  a new  world  swam  into  view.  But  more  matchless  the  marvel, 
as  has  been  justly  noted,  is  the  every-day  occurrence  of  the  captain 
of  an  ocean  liner,  after  he  has  been  driving  his  ship  over  the  unquiet 
sea  by  day  and  darkness,  through  fog  and  clear,  without  landmark  or 
guide  post,  saying,  “This  evening,  just  over  yonder,  Fastnet  Light 
will  flash  you  out  a greeting.” 

In  olden  time  the  conquerors  of  the  world  smoothed  down  a moun- 
tain side  and  chiselled  the  record  of  their  renown  upon  the  broad 
flanks  of  the  rock.  By  the  magic  of  modern  mechanics,  “ the  moun- 
tains are  cast  into  the  midst  of  the  sea.”  Their  forests  are  rigged  with 
canvas.  Their  coal  beds  are  stored  in  capacious  bunkers,  and  trans- 
formed into  Titanic  energy.  Their  iron  is  smelted  and  made  to  swim. 
The  villages  that  cluster  upon  their  sides  are  launched  and  float  across 
unstable  oceans  with  scarcely  less  security  when  they  are  bottomed 
upon  the  unmoving  rock.  Exaggeration  seems  impossible.  The  ocean 
steamer  is  a man-made  microcosm.  Between  decks  is  the  population  of 
a good  sized  town.  Its  crew  numbers  four  hundred  men.  Its  furnaces 
eat  four  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  of  coal  a minute;  three  hun- 
dred tons  a day.  To  build  it  costs  three  millions.  To  sail  it  from 
shore  to  shore  costs  eighty  thousand.  To  create  it  and  to  manage 
it  demands  an  expenditure  of  intellectual  force  that  baffles  figures. 
The  brain  work  that  devised  its  plan,  the  skilled  handicraft  that 
fashioned  its  form,  the  disciplined  energy,  the  acute  calculation, 
the  masterful  array  and  combination  of  every  material  energy  and 
mental  latency  that  can  drive  such  a planetary  construction  across 


7 


a trackless  waste,  in  face  of  tempest,  tide  and  current,  on  an  orbit 
fine  as  a hair  line,  and  drop  anchor  on  schedule  time,  has  a right  to 
our  astonished  admiration.  The  old  warrior  wept  for  a world  to 
conquer.  In  this  marvellous  and  ever-expanding  realm  of  maritime 
invention  the  Church  has  it.  We  speak  of  the  merchant  marine.  When 
the  shipping  of  the  world  becomes  the  Christian  marine,  dispersing 
over  the  earth  the  benedictions  of  the  cross,  the  hour  will  be  near, 
when  the  Saviour  “shall  be  satisfied.” 

“There  go  the  ships.”  How  beautiful  they  are  ! Like  the  starrv 
squadrons  of  God  that  swim  through  the  waters  that  are  above  the 
firmament,  they  voyage  in  stately  beauty  across  the  waters  that  are 
beneath  the  firmament.  The  passage  of  the  ship  casts  a spell  over 
every  onlooker.  From  the  moment  of  the  launch,  when  feeling  first 

“ The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel 

And  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean’s  arms,” 

until  the  hour  of  the  final  cruise  has  come,  and  with  prow  turned 
seaward  for  the  last  time,  like  La  Temeraire  and  Old  Ironsides, 
they 

“ Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 

And  give  her  to  the  God  of  storms. 

The  lightning  and  the  gale,” 

under  every  aspect  of  her  life,  the  ship  wears  a mystery  of  beauty  that 
weaves  a resistless  charm. 

There  are  such  graceful  lines,  such  tapering  masts,  such  branching 
spars,  such  buoyant  ease,  wedded  to  irresistible  power,  such  a serene 
swing  of  triumph  in  the  quiet,  steady,  onward  glide,  that  the  grace- 
fulness of  the  ship  and  the  charm  of  the  sea  surcharges  literature  and 
fascinates  thought.  A fire  of  driftwood  sends  out  a sparkle  of  many- 
colored  lights,  tinged  with  the  salt  spray  of  strange  and  distant  seas, 
and  is  ever  telling,  with  its  tongues  of  flame,  stories  of  adventure  in 
remote  coasts,  in  curious  climes,  under  alien  skies.  So  the  glow  of 
intellect  is  ever  flashing  with  some  reminiscence  of  the  sea.  There 
falls  across  the  pages  of  the  great  writers  the  frequent  gleam  of  snow- 
white  sails.  The  utterance  of  the  deepest  thinkers  has  a constant 
smack  of  sea-salt. 

In  common  speech  we  say,  “ What  blessing  shall  be  ours  when  our 
ships  come  in.”  With  what  tears  and  heartbreak  have  we  stood 
shorebound,  and  watched  our  treasure  ships  depart, 

“ And  love  is  silent  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail.” 


8 


When  the  monitions  of  the  end,  like  the  signs  of  nearing  land, 
begin  to  thicken  around  us,  we  echo  the  cry  of  the  Hebrew  poet, 
“My  days  are  passed  away  as  the  swift  ships.”  When  the  spirit 
comes  to  be  companionless  and  tosses  harborless  upon  the  billowing 
mystery  of  life,  we  make  the  plaint  of  the  laureate  our  own,  and  say  : 

“ The  stately  ships  go  on  to  their  haven  under  the  hill, 

But  oh  for  the  touch  of  a vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still.” 

The  instinct  of  immortality  strikingly  clothes  itself  in  this  guise 
of  the  sea.  In  all  thought,  death  has  been  unerringly  depicted,  not 
as  an  end,  but  as  a voyage  to  another  shore.  No  figure  stands  out 
more  prominently  in  pagan  legend  than  old  Charon,  the  ferryman 
of  souls.  In  the  early  dawn  of  Saxon  legend  the  bards  who  sung 
the  idyl  of  Arthur,  used  to  tell  of  a mysterious  vessel  that  was  in 
waiting  for  the  dying  king,  to  convey  his  passing  spirit, 

“ To  the  island  valley  of  Avilion 
Where  falls  not  rain,  nor  hail,  nor  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep  meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns, 

And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea.” 

The  latest,  richest  gems  of  English  song  have  come  from  the  two 
poets  whose  passing  has  left  the  earth  bereft  of  much  of  its  sweetest 
utterance.  Each  alike,  the  simple  singer  of  New  England,  and  the 
stately  rhymer  of  Old  England,  expressed  the  drawing  of  his  nature 
toward  eternity  under  the  image  of  a mystic  summons  from  the  sea. 
Whittier  sang  comfortingly  to  those  who  shiver  at  the  approach  of 
the  barque  of  death, 

“ They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 
With  pity’s  tender  breath, 

Nor  see  the  angel  at  the  helm 
Who  steers  the  ship  of  death.” 

Tennyson  brooded  over  the  mystery  of  the  life  beyond  until  his 
yearning  soul  began  to  tug  at  its  tether,  and  was  eager  to  slip  the 
irksome  anchor  chain  and  set  forth  upon  the  ocean  voyage  of  eternity, 

“ For  tho’  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I have  crossed  the  bar.” 

The  Bible  itself,  like  our  own  Continental  home,  lies  between 
stormy  Atlantic  and  calm  Pacific.  In  its  opening  chapter  is  heard 


9 


the  roll  of  mighty  waters  that  sink  with  majestic  cadence  at  its 
closing  pages  into  a sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire.  A sea  of  glass 
unvisited  by  storm.  A sea  of  glory  unshadowed  by  cloud.  There  the 
ships  do  not  go.  Their  sails  are  furled.  They  ride  at  anchor.  The 
weary  voyagers  have  reached  the  havens  of  eternal  rest. 

“There  go  the  ships.”  What  cargoes  they  carry!  Some  one  pithily 
says  that  every  visible  product  of  our  civilization  was  once  a thought 
under  a man’s  hat.  It  is  almost  equally  true  that  everything  which 
we  possess  was  once  in  the  hold  of  some  ship.  There  is  scarcely  an 
article  of  wearing  apparel,  or  dish  upon  the  dinner  table,  or  utensil  of 
household  use,  or  fruit  of  literary  labor,  or  flower  of  artistic  skill,  or  cog- 
wheel in  the  great  machinery  of  trade,  scarce  a contribution  to  the  com- 
plex mosaic  of  modern  life,  that  has  not  voyaged  beneath  the  hatches. 
The  writer  of  the  Book  of  the  Revelation  might  seem  to  have  been  fore- 
casting the  multitudinous  lading  of  the  present  day  freight  ship  when 
he  wrote,  “Merchandise  of  gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones,  and 
of  pearls  and  fine  linen,  and  purple  and  silk,  and  scarlet  and  all  thyine 
wood,  and  all  manner  vessels  of  ivory,  and  all  manner  vessels  of  most 
precious  wood,  and  of  brass,  and  of  iron  and  marble,  and  cinnamon 
and  odors,  and  ointments  and  frankincense,  and  wine  and  oil,  and  fine 
flour  and  wheat,  and  beasts  and  sheep,  and  horses  and  chariots,  and 
slaves,  and  the  souls  of  men.” 

“The  souls  of  men!”  That  last  item  outvalues  all  the  restand 
yet  does  not  appear  on  the  manifests  of  earthly  commerce.  It  is 
entered  carefully  in  the  ledgers  of  eternity.  God  is  the  Consignor  of 
the  manhood  that  makes  the  ships  go.  His  Church  is  the  Consignee. 

It  is  manhood  that  makes  the  ships  go.  We  express  the  power  of 
mechanism  in  terms  of  horse  power  simply  because  no  engine  can  ever 
be  constructed  which  can  generate  a force  equal  to  one  man  power. 
These  mighty  and  myriad  and  wonderful  and  beautiful  ships  are  all 
of  them  motored  by  manhood. 

“There  go  the  ships!”  Where  go  the  sailors?  Down  at  Fire 
Island  there  is  a sleepless  eye  behind  the  telescope  lens.  At  every 
shipping  port  there  is  a tireless  finger  on  the  telegraph  key.  Each 
issue  of  the  daily  paper  has  its  column  of  marine  intelligence.  All 
this,  concerning  the  going  of  the  ships.  But  here  is  a mighty  broth- 
erhood of  men,  more  than  three  million  of  them,  that  travel  the  lonely 
Sahara  of  the  sea,  that  are  braving  the  surging  temptations  that 
seethe  along  every  shore,  that  amid  the  shoals  and  perils  of  time  are 
outward  bound,  heading  toward  eternity.  We  post  ourselves  minutely 
as  to  ships.  Where  are  the  sailors  going?  Have  you  ever  asked  the 
question?  Have  you  ever  given  it  a thought?  Does  any  one  care? 


10 


Yes.  There  is  a society  of  caretakers  for  the  sailor  called  the 
American  Seamen’s  Friend  Society.  Its  animating  principle  is 
that  ships  are  cargoed  with  character.  It  was  cradled  amid  the 
patriotic  enthusiasms  and  naval  excitements  of  1812.  It  has  prayed 
itself  and  toiled  itself  along,  patiently,  hopefully,  amid  reverse  and 
vicissitude,  until  it  comes  to-day  to  exhibit  a splendid  record  of  res- 
cue work.  High  on  the  roll  of  those  who  gave  it  their  earnest 
thought  and  open  handed  contribution  are  names  that  are  inscribed 
with  imperishable  recollection  upon  the  roster  of  our  own  venerable 
church.*  That  Society  plants  its  beacons  along  the  world’s  seaboard. 
Its  chaplains  sentinel  the  edges  of  every  continent.  It  has  its  hand- 
shake ready  for  Jack  Tar  whenever  he  comes  ashore.  Down  in  old 
Nantucket  there  are  houses  with  curious  balustrades  upon  the  roof. 
They  were  intended  to  furnish  the  inhabitants  of  those  whaling  vil- 
lages with  a sort  of  observatory  from  which  they  could  detect  afar  the 
returning  ships  that  were  to  relink  the  members  of  the  household 
circle  that  had  for  long  been  parted.  All  over  the  maritime  world, 
as  far  as  the  benediction  of  this  Society  extends,  there  have  been  con- 
structed just  such  outlooks  for  the  sailor  ; from  which  the  sharpened 
vision  of  a loving  anxiety  may  scan  the  horizon  for  the  earliest  token 
of  the  incoming  ships,  in  order  that  the  arm  of  a warm  and  brotherly 
sympathy  may  be  thrown  around  a brother  man  for  whom  Christ 
died,  and  for  whom  few  but  Christ  seem  to  care. 

Where  can  the  sailors  be  helped  to  go?  Three  things  in  the  sailor 
character  will  light  us  to  the  answer:  Nobility,  Fallibility,  Possibility. 

(1)  Nobility.  It  used  to  be  said,  you  could  as  well  preach  to  the 
mainmast  as  to  preach  to  a common  sailor.  But  at  the  crust  even  a 
diamond  is  worthless  and  homely  earth;  at  the  core  is  its  priceless 
flame.  The  sailor  is  rough  in  the  shell,  he  is  rich  in  the  heart. 
Bravery  is  an  axiom  with  the  sailor.  “No  coward  takes  a second 
voyage,”  is  a sea  proverb.  He  may  ship  other  vices,  but  meanness  he 
throws  overboard.  Discipline  is  the  atmosphere  of  his  life.  He  re- 
cognizes and  bows  to  proper  authority.  Loyalty  is  a germ-force  in  his 
character.  Patience  and  skill  share  his  watch.  Strength  and  friend- 
liness are  his  messmates.  Every  dollar  that  comes  from  the  hand  of 
commerce  is  mined  in  hardship  and  minted  with  heroism.  The  sailor 
nature  is  veined  with  nobility  waiting  to  be  worked. 

(2)  Fallibility.  When  the  sailor  comes  ashore,  he  is  almost  certain 
to  lose  his  bearings.  A resourceful  landsman  is  apt  to  develop  help- 

* Among  the  early  friends  of  the  seamen  who  by  their  labors  and  contributions  did  much  to 
place  the  cause  upon  its  present  basis  were,  Robert  Lenox,  James  Lenox,  and  Aaron  B.  Belk- 
nap. (See  Report  of  American  Seamen's  Friend  Society,  1888,  page  9). 


11 


lessnees  when  afloat.  Certain  weaknesses  have  become  characteristic. 
There  seems  to  be  a chemical  affinity  between  liquor  and  the  sailor. 
But  that  is  no  new  thing.  Noah,  the  navigator,  got  drunk.  There 
seems  to  be  a proneness  to  impurity  on  the  part  of  the  sailor.  But 
that  is  no  phenomenal  thing.  Solomon,  the  great  shipbuilder,  was 
not  conspicuously  free  from  this  taint.  There  seems  to  be  a ready 
fluency  of  profanity  in  the  case  of  the  sailor.  But  not  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  sailor  alone,  for  poor  Peter  of  the  Galilean  lake 
dropped  oaths  very  naturally  when  his  emotions  slipped  their  anchor. 
Sailors  are  men.  That  is  all.  They  are  not  the  worst  of  men. 
Brownstone  does  not  build  out  sin.  It  sometimes  is  a citadel  of 
iniquity.  Silks  and  velvets  are  not  non-conductors  for  transgression. 
They  sometimes  cloak  a black  heart.  Jewels  and  gold  are  not  the 
tokens  of  purity  and  peace  alone.  They  sometimes  flash  with  a 
baleful,  lurid  fire  that  tells  of  lost  souls,  and  of  wasted  lives,  and  of 
shipwrecked  possibilities.  Hypocrisy  is  not  extinct.  Much  respect- 
ability is  on  the  upper  side  of  the  cuticle.  Decency,  many  a time, 
is  only  another  name  for  ethical  whitewash.  If  the  true  story  of 
Morality  Row  as  well  as  of  Marine  Alley  could  be  read,  you  would 
not  be  quick  to  say  that  sailors  are  the  worst  inhabitants  of  a 
great  modern  city.  They  are  certainly  weak.  It  is  just  possible  not 
as  weak  as  we  would  be,  if  the  supports  which  prop  up  our  wobbling 
virtue  wrere  struck  away  and  we  attempted  uprightness,  unbuttressed. 
Friends,  if  we  had  taken  from  us  the  daily  incense  of  family 
prayer,  if  we  ceased  to  hear  the  sweet  calling  of  the  church  bell,  if 
the  breezy  sympathy  of  Christian  friends,  if  the  strong  tonic  of  a 
general  and  average  respectability  ministered  no  vital  elements  to  our 
piety,  what  sort  of  a record  would  we  promptly  proceed  to  make? 
Let  him  that  is  without  sin  among  us  cast  the  first  stone  at  the  sailor, 
and  if  he  waits  until  he  is  pelted,  he  will  miss  his  ship.  “ If  Thou, 
Lord,  shouldest  mark  iniquity,  0 Lord,  who  shall  stand?” 

The  sailor  weaknesses  plead  pathetically  for  sympathetic  safeguard. 
Better  the  sail-cloth  shroud  and  the  cannon  shot  to  the  feet,  and  the 
sloping  plank  and  the  solemn  plunge  over  the  ship’s  side,  to  sleep  in 
the  great  sepulchre  of  the  sea,  beneath  the  eye  of  God,  and  waiting 
the  morning  call  of  God,  than  the  drop  into  a city  dive.  “The  dead 
are  there,”  and  the  poor  fellows  do  not  know  that  the  guests  of  those 
dwellings  “ make  their  bed  in  hell.”  There  is  always  a committee  of 
reception  in  waiting  for  the  sailor  when  he  comes  ashore.  "We  call 
them  land  sharks.  It  is  a libel  on  the  sea  shark.  The  greedy  ravin  of 
their  appetite,  the  insatiable  magnitude  of  their  maw,  the  fierceness  of 
their  fang  and  the  hardness  of  their  heart,  make  a sea  shark’s 


12 


instinctive  ferocity  seem  gentleness.  Why  not  land  saviours  as  well 
as  land  sharks? 

(3)  Possibility.  It  is  said  that  the  very  best  Bible  paper  is  made 
out  of  shreds  of  canvas.  It  is  certain  that  admirable  Christianity  is 
producible  from  sailor  experience.  The  fibre  of  their  character  lends 
itself  readily  to  the  manufacture  of  living  epistles. 

“ They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  occupy  their  business 
in  great  waters  ; these  men  see  the  works  of  the  Lord,  and  His  wonders 
in  the  deep.”  Unschooled  in  the  doctrines  of  men,  they  learn  theology 
from  the  ever  open  text  book  of  the  creation.  They  feast  continually 
upon  the  “wayside  sacraments”  which  nature  is  ceaselessly  cele- 
brating. Above  them  stretches  not  merely  a narrow  ribbon  of  blue 
hemmed  in  between  walls  of  brick  and  stone,  but  they  are  ever 
canopied  with  the  unbroken  sweep  of  the  sky,  that  “roof  majestical, 
fretted  with  golden  fire.”  Beneath  them  is  not  the  dull,  hard,  lus- 
treless flagstone  and  cobble,  but  that  pavement  of  emerald  and  ame- 
thyst trodden  by  Him  whose  footsteps  are  in  the  great  waters.  They 
are  not  forever  dazed  with  the  deafening  clamors  of  traffic,  but  their 
ears  are  continually  saluted  with  the  sound  of  those  majestic  har- 
monies which  the  voice  of  the  floods  lifts  adoringly  to  the  praise  of 
the  great  Creator.  They  are  in  constant  contact  with  Almightiness. 
They  imbreathe  a sense  of  the  infinite.  Their  life  is  one  long  depen- 
dence upon  a higher  power.  The  untwisting  of  a rope,  the  snap  of  a 
rivet,  the  starting  of  a plank,  means  the  end  of  a life  voyage.  The 
atheist  is  a land  animal.  The  sailor  may  not  think  much  about  God. 
He  rarely  denies  Him.  The  ocean  is  not  a good  place  in  which  to  trifle 
with  primal  instincts.  He  who  sang  false  so  often,  struck  a true  note 
when  he  wrote, 

“Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty’s  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests;  in  all  time, — 

Calm  or  convulsed,  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 

Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 

Dark  heaving — boundless,  endless,  and  sublime, 

The  image  of  eternity,  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible.” 

So  the  gospel  is  not  unnatural  to  the  sailor.  He  is  vaguely  sensitive 
to  the  very  influences  which  it  defines  and  brings  clearly  home  to 
him.  Its  truths  are  a transcript  of  his  experience.  His  being,  needle- 
like swings  towards  the  cross.  When  a sailor  becomes  a believer,  the 
heartiness  of  the  change  makes  apparent  at  least  one  reason  why  the 
Lord  saw  apostle  stuff  in  Galilean  ’longshoremen.  His  faith  is  sim- 
ple, genuine,  intense.  A marine  Christian  is  all  Christ’s.  He  consigns 


13 


the  whole  cargo.  He  keeps  nothing  back.  He  sails  on  another  course. 
He  takes  orders  from  a new  captain.  He’s  not  ashamed  of  it.  He’s 
forever  trying  to  get  others  to  ship  for  the  same  voyage.  To  quote  a 
sample  instance,  one  captain  tells  of  a sailor  who  had  been  converted 
and  became  so  interested  in  reading  the  Bible  aloud  to  his  messmates 
and  in  spinning  gospel  yarns  in  the  forecastle,  and  in  pertinaciously 
persuading  every  one  else  into  the  same  blessedness  which  he  had  won, 
that,  to  quote  the  narrator’s  language,  “ it  seemed  as  if  God  Himself 
had  come  aboard  my  ship.” 

There  are  limitless  possibilities  in  the  sailor.  They  are  well  worth 
the  saving.  Do  you  remember  the  storm  at  Samoa,  in  the  South 
Pacific,  a year  or  two  ago  ? There,  in  a narrow  island  harbor,  was 
crowded  a mighty  fleet  of  war  ships.  As  the  storm  increased  those  iron- 
clads began  to  grind  against  each  other  like  monster  mill-stones. 
Fearful  was  the  grist  they  ground.  That  death  mill  ran  for  hours. 
From  midnight  until  morning,  from  morning  until  midday,  those 
awful  mill-stones  ceased  not  in  the  grinding  of  that  grist,  whereof  the 
grain  was  men.  Pitiable  was  the  plight  of  the  American  flag-ship,  the 
Trenton.  Great  seas  flooded  her  gun  deck.  Rudder  and  rigging  went  by 
the  board.  Her  engines  failed  to  work.  Then  the  whole  crew  sprang 
to  the  spars,  and  the  wind  that  had  rent  the  sail-cloth  into  ribbons, 
struck  upon  the  sturdy  bosoms  of  men  that  were  woven  into  a human 
sail,  and  the  old  flag-ship  righted.  The  giant  gale  then  sought  to  drive 
that  gallant  vessel  straight  into  the  jaws  of  destruction,  and  when  it 
seemed  that  all  hope  of  escape  had  vanished,  for  the  first  time  that 
day  the  stars  and  stripes  was  run  to  the  peak.  There  was  no  other 
flag  flown  in  that  fateful  storm.  The  battle  waxed  yet  more  furious. 
The  shades  of  evening  fell.  The  tides  seemed  to  lift  her  in  their 
giant  arms,  and  strove  to  hurl  her  on  the  Yandalia,  that  lay,  a 
wrecked  hulk,  right  across  her  path.  As  she  went  bearing  down  upon 
the  shattered  fragments  of  her  sister  vessel,  the  four  hundred  and 
fifty  men  of  her  crew  mustered  on  the  deck,  and  saluted  with  a ring- 
ing cheer  the  brave  fellows  who  had  been  clinging  to  masts  and 
spars  through  weary  hours,  only,  as  it  seemed,  to  go  in  company 
with  them  down  the  dreadful  gulf  of  death.  Just  then  the  throDgs 
that  were  upon  the  surge-beaten  shore,  lining  it,  as  the  spectators  in 
the  olden  time  circled  the  arena  where  gladiators  fought,  were  held 
spell-bound.  Above  the  awful  riot  of  the  tempest  came  the  sound  of 
music.  On  their  march  to  death,  the  band  of  the  Trenton  had 
struck  up  “ The  Star  Spangled  Banner.”  The  newspaper  report  reads 
like  an  epic.  The  barest  recital  of  the  facts  ring  like  an  Iliad. 
Balaklava  was  not  more  superb.  Sublimity  slumbered  beneath 


14 


those  blue  jackets.  The  tars  of  the  Trenton  have  enriched  the  world 
with  their  heroism.  That’s  the  precise  sort  of  character  stuff  that 
ought  to  be  enlisted  under  the  ensign  of  Christ.  Can  it  be  saved  ? 
Can  it  be  ? There  are  no  interrogation  points  in  the  grammar  of 
Divine  grace.  The  love  that  climbed  the  cross  is  backed  by  Omnipo- 
tence. He  that  holds  the  sea  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  yearns  to 
feel  the  sailor’s  head  pillowed  on  His  heart.  Be  a friend  of  the 
American  seaman.  God  is. 


